V 


V 


v' 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 
Mr.&Mrs.   G.W.   Parker 


ojGoa 


(ruce  ofGocf 


^Decorations  bu  tiwoUSicnct 


NEW  YORK 

GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


Copyright,  1920, 
By  George  H.  Doran  Company 


Copyright,  1914,  by  P-  P-  Cottier  &  Sons,  Inc. 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


of  God 


r^V          /'OW  the  day  of  the 

^  A&  I  Wrth  °f  °ur  Lord 

I  V\|  dawned  that  year 
^S  ^  grey  and  dreary, 
and  a  Saturday.  But,  despite  the 
weather,  in  the  town  at  the  foot  of 
the  hill  there  was  rejoicing,  as  be 
fitted  so  great  a  festival.  The  day 
before  a  fat  steer  had  been  driven 
to  the  public  square  and  there 
dressed  and  trussed  for  the  roast 
ing.  The  light  of  morning  fall- 


ing  on  his  carcass  revealed  around 
it  great  heaps  of  fruits  and  vege 
tables.  For  the  year  had  been 
prosperous. 

But  the  young  overlord  sulked 
in  his  castle  at  the  cliff  top,  and 
bit  his  nails.  From  Thursday  eve 
ning  of  each  week  to  the  morning 
of  Monday,  Mother  Church  had 
decreed  peace,  a  Truce  of  God. 
Three  full  days  out  of  each  week 
his  men-at-arms  polished  their 
weapons  and  grew  fat.  Three  full 
days  out  of  each  week  his  grudge 
against  his  cousin,  Philip  of  the 
Black  Beard,  must  feed  on  itself. 

His  dark  mood  irritated  the 
Bishop  of  Tours,  who  had  come  to 

8 


speak  of  certain  scandalous  things 
which  had  come  to  his  ears.  Charles 
heard  him  through. 

"She  took  refuge  with  him,"  he 
said  violently,  when  the  Bishop  had 
finished.  "She  knew  what  hate 
there  was  between  us,  yet  she  took 
refuge  with  him." 

"The  question  is,"  said  the 
Bishop  mildly,  "why  she  should 
have  been  driven  to  refuge.  A  gen 
tle  lady,  a  faithful  wife " 

"Deus!"  The  young  seigneur 
clapped  a  fist  on  the  table.  "You 
know  well  the  reason.  A  barren 
woman!" 

"She  had  borne  you  a  daugh 
ter." 


V 


But  Charles  was  far  gone  in 
rage  and  out  of  hand.  The  Bishop 
took  his  offended  ears  to  bed,  and 
left  him  to  sit  alone  by  the  dying 
fire,  with  bitterness  for  company. 

Came  into  the  courtyard  at  mid 
night  the  Christmas  singers  from 
the  town;  the  blacksmith  rolling  a 
great  bass,  the  crockery-seller  who 
sang  falsetto,  and  a  fool  of  the  vil 
lage  who  had  slept  overnight  in  a 
manger  on  the  holy  eve  a  year  be 
fore  and  had  brought  from  it,  not 
wit,  but  a  voice  from  Heaven.  A 
miracle  of  miracles. 

The  men-at-arms  in  the  court 
yard  stood  back  to  give  them  space. 
They  sang  with  eyes  upturned, 
10 


WL  Tr 


ruce 

with  full-throated  vigour,  albeit  a 
bit  warily,  with  an  anxious  glance 
now  and  then  toward  those  win 
dows  beyond  which  the  young  lord 
sulked  by  the  fire. 

"The   Light    of   Light    Divine, 
True  Brightness  undefiled. 
He  bears  for  us  the  shame  of  sin, 
A  holy,  spotless  Child." 

They  sang  to  the  frosty  air. 
When  neither  money  nor  burning 
fagot  was  flung  from  the  window 
they  watched,  they  took  their  de 
parture,  relieved  if  unrewarded. 

In  former  years  the  lady  of  the 
Castle  had  thrown  them  alms.  But 
times  had  changed.    Now  the  gen 
ii 


tie  lady  was  gone,  and  the  seigneur 
sulked  in  the  hall. 

With  the  dawn  Charles  the  Fail- 
took  himself  to  bed.    And  to  him, 
pattering    barefoot    along    stone 
floors,  came  Clotilde,  the  child  of 
his  disappointment. 
"Are  you  asleep?" 
One    arm   under    his    head,    he 
looked  at  her  without  answer. 

"It  is  the  anniversary  of  the 
birth  of  our  Lord,"  she  ven 
tured.  "Today  He  is  born.  I 

thought "  She  put  out  a  small, 

very  cold  hand.    But  he  turned  his 
head  away. 

"Back   to   your   bed,"   he   said 

12 


shortly.  "Where  is  your  nurse,  to 
permit  this?" 

The  child's  face  fell.  Some 
thing  she  had  expected,  some  mira 
cle,  perhaps,  a  softening  of  the 
lord  her  father,  so  that  she  might 
ask  of  him  a  Christmas  boon. 

The  Bishop  had  said  that  Christ 
mas  miracles  were  often  wrought, 
and  she  herself  knew  that  this  was 
true.  Had  not  the  Fool  secured 
his  voice,  so  that  he  who  had  been 
but  lightly  held  became  the  village 
troubadour,  and  slept  warm  and 
full  at  night? 

She  had  gone  to  the  Bishop  with 
this  the  night  before. 

13 


"If  I  should  lie  in  a  manger  all 
night,"  she  said,  standing  with  her 
feet  well  apart  and  looking  up  at 
him,  "would  I  become  a  boy?" 

The  Bishop  tugged  at  his  beard. 
"A  boy,  little  maid!  Would  you 
give  up  your  blue  eyes  and  your 
soft  skin  to  be  a  roystering  lad?" 

"My  father  wishes  for  a  son," 
she  had  replied  and  the  cloud  that 
was  over  the  Castle  shadowed  the 
Bishop's  eyes. 

"It  would  not  be  well,"  he  re 
plied,  "to  tamper  with  the  works 
of  the  Almighty.  Pray  rather  for 
this  miracle,  that  your  father's 
heart  be  turned  toward  you  and 

14 


toward  the   lady,   your   mother." 

So  during  much  of  the  night  she 
had  asked  this  boon  steadfastly. 
But  clearly  she  had  not  been  heard. 

"Back  to  your  bed!"  said  her 
father,  and  turned  his  face  away. 

So  she  went  as  far  as  the  leather 
curtain  which  hung  in  the  door 
way  and  there  she  turned. 

"Why  do  they  sing?"  she  had 
asked  the  Bishop,  of  the  black 
smith  and  the  others,  and  he  had 
replied  into  his  beard,  "To  soften 
the  hard  of  heart." 

So  she  turned  in  the  doorway 
and  sang  in  her  reedy  little  voice, 
much  thinned  by  the  cold,  sang  to 
soften  her  young  father's  heart. 

15 


Melruce  of  God 

"The   Light   of   Light   Divine, 
True  Brightness  undefiled. 
He  bears  for  us  the  shame  of  sin, 
A  holy,  spotless  Child." 

But  the  song  failed.  Perhaps 
it  was  the  wrong  hour,  or  perhaps 
it  was  because  she  had  not  slept 
in  the  manger  and  brought  forth 
the  gift  of  voice. 

"Blood  of  the  martyrs!"  shouted 
her  father,  and  raised  himself  on 
his  elbow.  "Are  you  mad?  Get 
back  to  your  bed.  I  shall  have  a 
word  with  someone  for  this." 

Whether  it  had  softened  him  or 
not  it  had  stirred  him,  so  she  made 
her  plea. 

"It  is  His  birthday.  I  want  to 
see  my  mother." 

16 


Then  she  ducked  under  the  cur 
tain  and  ran  as  fast  as  she  could 
back  to  where  she  belonged.  Terror 
winged  her  feet.  She  had  spoken 
a  forbidden  word. 

All  sleep  was  gone  from  Charles 
the  Fair.  He  lay  on  his  elbow  in 
his  bed  and  thought  of  things  that 
he  wished  to  forget :  of  the  wife  he 
had  put  away  because  in  eight 
years  she  had  borne  him  no  son ;  of 
his  great  lands  that  would  go  to  his 
cousin,  Philip  of  the  Black  Beard, 
whom  he  hated ;  of  girls  in  the  plain 
who  wooed  him  with  soft  eyes  and 
whom  he  passed  by;  of  a  Jew  who 
lay  in  a  dungeon  beneath  the  Castle 
because  of  usury  and  other  things. 

17 


; 

of Gocl 

After  a  time  he  slept  again,  but 
lightly,  for  the  sun  came  in  through 
the  deep,  unshaded  window  and 
fell  on  his  face  and  on  the  rushes 
that  covered  the  floor.  And  in  his 
sleep  the  grimness  was  gone,  and 
the  pride.  And  his  mouth,  which 
was  sad,  contended  with  the  firm 
ness  of  his  chin. 

Clotilde  went  back  to  her  bed 
and  tucked  her  feet  under  her  to 
warm  them.  In  the  next  room  her 
nurse  lay  on  a  bed  asleep,  with  her 
mouth  open;  outside  in  the  stone 
corridor  a  page  slept  on  a  skin, 
with  a  corner  over  him  against  the 
draught. 

She  thought  things  over  while 

18 


she  warmed  her  feet.  It  was  clear 
that  singing  did  not  soften  all 
hearts.  Perhaps  she  did  not  sing 
very  well.  But  the  Bishop  had 
said  that  after  one  had  done  a  good 
act  one  might  pray  with  hope.  She 
decided  to  do  a  good  act  and  then 
to  pray  to  see  her  mother;  she 
would  pray  also  to  become  a  boy 
so  that  her  father  might  care  for 
her.  But  the  Bishop  considered  it 
a  little  late  for  such  a  prayer. 

She  made  terms  with  the  Al 
mighty,  sitting  on  her  bed. 

"I  shall  do  a  good  act,"  she  said, 
"on  this  the  birthday  of  Thy  Son, 
and  after  that  I  shall  ask  for  the 
thing  Thou  knowest  of." 

19 


After  much  thinking,  she  decid 
ed  to  free  the  Jew.  And  being, 
after  all,  her  father's  own  child, 
she  acted  at  once. 

It  was  a  matter  of  many  cold 
stone  steps  and  much  fumbling 
with  bars.  But  Guillem  the 
gaoler  had  crept  up  to  the  hall 
and  lay  sleeping  by  the  fire,  with 
a  dozen  dogs  about  him.  It  was 
the  time  of  the  Truce  of  God,  and 
vigilance  was  relaxed.  Also  Guil 
lem  was  in  love  with  a  girl  of  the 
village  and  there  was  talk  that  the 
seigneur f  in  his  loneliness,  had  seen 
that  she  was  beautiful.  So  Guil 
lem  slept  to  forget,  and  the  Jew 


ofGoa 

lay  awake  because  of  rats  and  anx 
iety. 

The  Jew  rose  from  the  floor 
when  Clotilde  threw  the  grating 
open,  and  blinked  at  her  with 
weary  and  gentle  eyes. 

"It  is  the  birthday  of  our  Lord," 
said  Clotilde,  "and  I  am  doing  a 
good  deed  so  that  I  may  see  my 
mother  again.  But  go  quickly." 
Then  she  remembered  something 
the  Bishop  had  said  to  her,  and 
eyed  him  thoughtfully  as  he  stared 
at  her. 

"But  you  do  not  love  our  Lord!" 

The  Jew  put  out  his  foot  quietly 
so  that  she  could  not  close  the  grat- 
21 

I , r 


TfcTruce  of  God 

ing  again.  But  he  smiled  into  her 
eyes. 

"Your  Lord  was  a  Jew,"  he 
said. 

This  reassured  her.  It  seemed 
to  double  the  quality  of  mercy. 
She  threw  the  door  wide  and  the 
usurer  went  out  cautiously,  as  if 
suspecting  a  trap.  But  patches  of 
sunlight,  barred  with  black,  showed 
the  way  clear.  He  should  have 
gone  at  once,  but  he  waited  to  give 
her  the  blessing  of  his  people.  Even 
then,  having  started,  he  went  back 
to  her.  She  looked  so  small  in 
that  fearsome  place. 

"If  there  is  something  you  wish, 


little  maid,  and  I  can  secure  it  for 


you " 

"I  wish  but  two  things,"  she 
said.  "I  wish  to  be  a  boy,  only  I 
fear  it  is  too  late  for  that.  The 
Bishop  thinks  so.  And  I  wish  to 
see  my  mother." 

And  these  being  beyond  his  gift, 
and  not  contained  in  the  pack  he 
had  fastened  to  his  shoulders,  he 
only  shook  his  head  and  took  his 
cautious  way  toward  freedom. 

Having  tried  song  and  a  good 
deed,  Clotilde  went  back  again  to 
her  room,  stepping  over  the  page, 
who  had  curled  himself  up  in  a 
ball,  like  a  puppy,  and  still  slept. 
She  crossed  her  hands  on  her  breast 

23 


and  raised  her  eyes  as  she  had  been 
taught. 

"Now,  O  Lord,"  she  said,  "I 
have  tried  song  and  I  have  tried  a 
good  deed.  I  wish  to  see  my 
mother." 

Perhaps  it  was  merely  coinci 
dence  that  the  level  rays  of  the 
morning  sun  just  then  fell  on  the 
crucifix  that  hung  on  the  wall,  and 
that  although  during  all  the  year 
it  seemed  to  be  but  of  wood  and 
with  closed  eyes,  now  it  flashed  as 
with  life  and  the  eyes  were  open. 

"He  was  one  of  Your  people," 
she  said  to  the  crucifix,  "and  by 
now  he  is  down  the  hill." 


C/japfer 


|  / 
\ 


II 


OW  it  was  the  cus 
tom  on  the  morning 
of  the  Holy  day  for 
the  seigneur  to  ride 
his  finest  stallion  to  the  top  of  the 
hill,  where  led  a  steep  road  down 
into  the  town.  There  he  dis 
mounted,  surrounded  by  his  people, 
guests  and  soldiers,  smaller  visit 
ing  nobility,  the  household  of  the 
Castle.  And,  the  stage  being  set 
as  it  were,  and  the  village  waiting 
below,  it  was  his  pleasure  to  give 


ofGotf 


his  charger  a  great  cut  with  the 
whip  and  send  him  galloping,  un- 
ridden,  down  the  hill.  The  horse 
was  his  who  caught  it. 

Below  waited  the  villagers,  di 
vided  between  terror  and  cupidity. 
Above  waited  the  Castle  folk.  It 
was  an  amusing  game  for  those 
who  stood  safely  along  the  parapet 
and  watched,  one  that  convulsed 
them  with  merriment.  Also,  it  im 
proved  the  quality  of  those  horses 
that  grazed  in  the  plain  below. 

This  year  it  was  a  great  grey 
that  carried  Charles  out  to  the  road 
that  clung  to  the  face  of  the  cliff. 
Behind  him  on  a  donkey,  reminder 
of  the  humble  beast  that  had  borne 

28 


of  God 


the  Christ  into  Jerusalem,  rode  the 
Bishop.  Saddled  and  bridled  was 
the  grey,  with  a  fierce  head  and 
great  shoulders,  a  strong  beast  for 
strong  days. 

The  men-at-arms  were  drawn  up 
in  a  double  line,  weapons  at  rest. 
From  the  place  below  rose  a  thin 
grey  smoke  where  the  fire  kindled 
for  the  steer.  But  the  crowd  had 
deserted  and  now  stood,  eyes  up 
raised  to  the  Castle,  and  to  the  cliff 
road  where  waited  boys  and  men 
ready  for  their  desperate  emprise, 
clad  in  such  protection  of  leather 
as  they  could  afford  against  the 
stallion's  hoofs. 

Two  people  only  remained  by 

29 


•52 


the  steer,  an  aged  man,  almost 
blind,  who  tended  the  fire,  and  the 
girl  Joan,  whom  Guillem  slept  to 
forget. 

"The  seigneur  has  ridden  out  of 
the  gates,  father,"  she  said.  The 
colour  mounted  to  her  dark  cheeks. 
She  was  tall  and  slender,  unlike 
the  peasant  girls  of  the  town,  al 
most  noble  in  her  bearing;  a  rare 
flower  that  Charles,  in  his  rage  and 
disappointment,  would  pick  for 
himself. 

"And  were  you  not  undutiful," 
he  mumbled,  "you  would  be  with 
him  now,  and  looking  down  on  this 
rabble." 

She  did  not  reply  at  once.    Her 

30 


eyes  were  fixed  on  the  frowning 
castle,  on  the  grim  double  line  of 
men-at-arms,  at  the  massive  horse 
and  its  massive  rider. 

"I,  too,  should  be  up  there," 
whined  the  old  man.  "Today,  in 
stead  of  delivering  Christmas  dues, 
I  should  be  receiving  them.  But 
you — !"  He  swung  on  her  mal 
evolently,  "You  must  turn  great 
ox-eyes  toward  Guillem,  whose 
most  courageous  work  is  to  levy 
tribute  of  a  dungeon!" 

She  flushed. 

"I  am  afraid,  father.  He  is  a 
hard  man." 

"He  is  gentle  with  women." 

"Gentle!"     Her  eyes  were  still 

31 


upraised.  "He  knows  not  the  word. 
When  he  looks  at  me  there  is  no 
liking  in  his  eyes.  I  am — fright 
ened." 

The  overlord  sat  his  great  horse 
and  surveyed  the  plain  below.  As 
far  as  he  could  see,  and  as  far  again 
in  every  direction,  was  his  domain, 
paying  him  tithe  of  fat  cattle  and 
heaping  granaries.  As  far  as  he 
could  see  and  as  far  again  was  the 
domain  that,  lacking  a  man-child, 
would  go  to  Philip,  his  cousin. 

The  Bishop,  who  rode  his  don 
key  without  a  saddle,  slipped  off 
and  stood  beside  the  little  beast  on 
the  road.  His  finger  absently 
traced  the  dark  cross  on  its  back. 


"Idiots!"  snarled  the  overlord 
out  of  his  distemper,  as  he  looked 
down  into  the  faces  of  his  faithful 
ones  below.  "Fools  and  sons  of 
fools !  Thy  beast  would  suit  them 
better,  Bishop,  than  mine." 

Then  he  flung  himself  insolently 
out  of  the  saddle.  There  was  little 
of  Christmas  in  his  heart,  God 
knows;  only  hate  and  disappoint 
ment  and  thwarted  pride. 

"A  great  day,  my  lord,"  said 
the  Bishop.  "Peace  over  the  land. 
The  end  of  a  plentiful  year " 

"Bah!" 

"The  end  of  a  plentiful  year," 
repeated  the  Bishop  tranquilly, 
"this  day  of  His  birth,  a  day  for 

33 


thanksgiving  and  for — good-will." 

"Bah!"  said  the  overlord  again, 
and  struck  the  grey  a  heavy  blow. 
So  massive  was  the  beast,  so  ter 
rific  the  pace  at  which  it  charged 
down  the  hill  that  the  villagers 
scattered.  He  watched  them  with 
his  lip  curling. 

"See,"  he  said,  "brave  men  and 
truel  Watch,  father,  how  they 
rally  to  the  charge!"  And  when 
the  creature  was  caught,  and  a 
swaying  figure  clung  to  the  bridle : 

"By  the  cross,  the  Fool  has  him! 
A  fine  heritage  for  my  cousin  Phil 
ip,  a  village  with  its  bravest  man 
a  simpleton!" 

The  Fool  held  on  swinging.  His 

34 


'"Jhflruce  of  God 

arms  were  very  strong,  and  as  is 
the  way  with  fools  and  those  that 
drown,  many  things  went  through 
his  mind.  The  horse  was  his.  He 
would  go  adventuring  along  the 
winter  roads,  adventuring  and 
singing.  The  townspeople  gath 
ered  about  him  with  sheepish 
praise.  From  a  dolt  he  had  become 
a  hero.  Many  have  taken  the  same 
step  in  the  same  space  of  moments, 
the  line  being  but  a  line  and  easy  to 
cross. 

The  denouement  suited  the  grim 
mood  of  the  overlord.  It  pleased 
him  to  see  the  smug  villagers  stand 
by  while  the  Fool  mounted  his 
steed.  Side  by  side  from  the  para- 

35 


Thelruce  of  God 

pet  he  and  the  Bishop  looked  down 
into  the  town. 

"The  birthday  of  our  Lord, 
Bishop,"  he  said,  "with  fools  on 
blooded  horses  and  the  courage  of 
the  townspeople  in  their  stomachs." 

"The  birthday  of  our  Lord," 
said  the  Bishop  tranquilly,  "with  a 
lad  mounted  who  has  heretofore 
trudged  afoot,  and  with  the  hun 
gry  fed  in  the  market  place." 

Now  it  had  been  in  the  mind  of 
the  Bishop  that  the  day  would 
soften  Charles'  grim  humour  and 
that  he  might  speak  to  him  as  man 
to  man.  But  Charles  was  not 
softened. 

So  the  Bishop  gathered  up  his 

36 


courage.  His  hand  was  still  on 
the  cross  on  the  donkey's  back. 

"You  are  young,  my  son,  and 
have  been  grievously  disappoint 
ed.  I,  who  am  old,  have  seen 
many  things,  and  this  I  have 
learned.  Two  things  there  are 
that,  next  to  the  love  of  God,  must 
be  greatest  in  a  man's  life — not 
war  nor  slothful  peace,  nor  pride, 
nor  yet  a  will  that  would  bend  all 
things  to  its  end." 

The  overlord  scowled.  He  had 
found  the  girl  Joan  in  the  Market 
Square,  and  his  eyes  were  on  her. 

"One,"  said  the  Bishop,  "is  the 
love  of  a  woman.  The  other  is — 
a  child." 

37 


The  donkey  stood  meekly,  with 
hanging  head. 

"A  woman,"  repeated  the  Bish 
op.  "You  grow  rough  up  here  on 
your  hillside.  Only  a  few  months 
since  the  lady  your  wife  went 
away,  and  already  order  has  for 
saken  you.  The  child,  your 
daughter,  runs  like  a  wild  thing, 
without  control.  Our  Holy  Church 
deplores  these  things." 

"Will  Holy  Church  grant  me 
another  wife  ?" 

"Holy  Church,"  replied  the 
Bishop  gravely,  "would  have  you 
take  back,  my  lord,  the  wife  whom 
your  hardness  drove  away." 

The  seigneur's  gaze  turned  to 

38 


of  God 


the  east,  where  lay  the  Castle  of 
Philip,  his  cousin.  Then  he 
dropped  brooding  eyes  to  the 
Square  below,  where  the  girl  Joan 
assisted  her  father  by  the  fire,  and 
moved  like  a  mother  of  kings. 

"You  wish  a  woman  for  the 
castle,  father,"  he  said.  "Then  a 
woman  we  shall  have.  Holy 
Church  may  not  give  me  another 
wife,  but  I  shall  take  one.  And 
I  shall  have  a  son." 

The  child  Clotilde  had  watched 
it  all  from  a  window.  Because 
she  was  very  high  the  thing  she 
saw  most  plainly  was  the  cross  on 
the  donkey's  back.  Far  out  over 

39 


of  Gocf 


the  plain  was  a  moving  figure 
which  might  or  might  not  have 
been  the  Jew.  She  chose  to  think 
it  was. 

"One  of  Your  people,"  she  said 
toward  the  crucifix.  "I  have  done 
the  good  deed." 

She  was  a  little  frightened,  for 
all  her  high  head. 

Other  Christmases  she  and  the 
lady  her  mother  had  sat  hand  in 
hand,  and  listened  to  the  royster- 
ing. 

"They  are  drunk,"  Clotilde 
would  say. 

But  her  mother  would  stroke 
her  hand  and  reply: 

40 


v— * 

n 


'ThfTruce  of  God 

"They  but  rejoice  that  our  Lord 
is  born." 

So  the  child  Clotilde  stood  at 
her  window  and  gazed  to  where  the 
plain  stretched  as  far  as  she  could 
see  and  as  far  again.  And  there 
was  her  mother.  She  would  go  to 
her  and  bring  her  back,  or  perhaps 
failing  that,  she  might  be  allowed 
to  stay. 

Here  no  one  would  miss  her. 
The  odour  of  cooking  food  filled 
the  great  house,  loud  laughter,  the 
clatter  of  mug  on  board.  Her  old 
nurse  was  below,  decorating  a 
boar's  head  with  berries  and  a 
crown. 

Because  it  was  the   Truce   of 

41 


God  and  a  festival,  the  gates  stood 
open.  She  reached  the  foot  of 
the  hill  safely.  Stragglers  going 
up  and  down  the  steep  way  re 
garded  her  without  suspicion.  So 
she  went  through  the  Square  past 
the  roasting  steer,  and  by  a  twist 
ing  street  into  the  open  country. 
When  she  stopped  to  rest  it  was 
to  look  back  with  wistful  eyes  to 
ward  the  frowning  castle  on  the 
cliff.  For  a  divided  allegiance 
was  hers.  Passionately  as  she 
loved  her  mother,  her  indomitable 
spirit  was  her  father's  heritage, 
his  fierceness  was  her  courage,  and 
she  loved  him  as  the  small  may 
love  the  great. 

42 


of  God 


The  Fool  found  her  at  the  edge 
of  the  river.  She  had  forgotten 
that  there  was  a  river.  He  was 
on  his  great  horse,  and  he  rode  up 
by  the  child  and  looked  down  at 
her. 

"It  was  I  who  captured  him," 
he  boasted.  "The  others  ran,  but 
I  caught  him,  so."  He  dismount 
ed  to  illustrate. 

"It  is  not  because  you  were 
brave  that  you  captured  him." 

"Then  why?"  He  stood  with 
his  feet  wide  apart,  looking  down 
at  her. 

"It  is  because  you  have  slept  in 
a  manger  on  a  Holy  Eve." 

"Aye,"  he  responded,  "but  that 

43 


of  God 


was  a  matter  of  courage,  too. 
There  were  many  strange  noises. 
Also,  in  the  middle  of  the  night 
came  Our  Lady  herself  and  said 
to  me:  'Hereafter  thou  shalt  sing 
with  the  voice  of  an  angel.' ' 

"I  should  like  to  see  Our 
Lady,"  said  the  child  wistfully. 

"Also,"  pursued  the  Fool,  "She 
gave  me  power  over  great  beasts. 
See!  He  fears  me,  while  he  loves 
me." 

And  indeed  there  seemed  some 
curious  kinship  between  the  horse 
and  the  lad,  perhaps  because  the 
barrier  of  keen  human  mind  was 
not  between  them. 

"Think    you,"    said    the    little 

44 


maid,  "if  I  slept  where  you  did 
She  would  appear  to  me  ?  I  would 
not  ask  much,  only  to  be  made  a 
lad  like  you,  and,  perhaps,  to 
sing." 

"But  I  am  a  simpleton.  In 
stead  of  wit  I  have  but  a  voice 
and  now — a  horse." 

"A  lad  like  you,"  she  persisted, 
"so  that  my  father  would  love  me 
and  my  mother  might  come  back 
again?" 

"Better  stay  as  you  are,"  said 
the  Fool.  "Also,  there  will  be 
no  Holy  Eve  again  for  a  long 
time.  It  comes  but  once  a  year. 
Also  it  is  hard  times  for  men  who 
must  either  fight  or  work  in  the 

45 


He  struck  his 
I  shall  do  neither.  And 
I  shall  cut  no  more  wood.  I  go 
adventuring." 

Clotilde  rose  and  drew  her  grey 
cloak  around  her. 

"I  am  adventuring,  too,"  she 
said.  "Only  I  have  no  voice  and 
no  horse.  May  I  go  with  you?" 

The  boy  was  doubtful.  He  had 
that  innate  love  and  tenderness 
that  is  given  to  his  kind  instead  of 
other  things.  But  a  child! 

"I  will  take  you,"  he  said  at 
last,  rather  heavily.  "But  where, 
little  lady?" 

"To  my  mother  at  the  castle  of 
Black  Philip."  And  when  his 

46 


face  fell — for  Philip  was  not 
named  The  Black  only  for  his 
beard — 

"She  loves  singing.  I  will  ask 
you  to  sing  before  her." 

That  decided  him.  He  took  her 
before  him  on  the  grey  horse  and 
they  set  off,  two  valiant  adven 
turers,  a  troubadour  and  a  lady, 
without  food  or  sufficient  cloth 
ing,  but  with  high  courage  and  a 
song. 

And  because  it  was  the  Truce 
of  God  the  children  went  un 
harmed,  encountering  no  greater 
adventure  than  hunger  and  cold 
and  aching  muscles.  Robbers 
sulked  in  their  fastnesses,  and 

47 


their  horses  pawed  the  ground. 
Murder,  rapine  and  pillage  slept 
that  Christmas  day,  under  the 
shelter  of  the  cross. 

The  Fool,  who  ached  for  ad 
venture,  rather  resented  the  peace. 

"Wait  until  Monday,"  he  said 
from  behind  her  on  the  horse.  "I 
shall  show  you  great  things." 

But  the  little  maid  was  cold  by 
that  time  and  beginning  to  be 
frightened.  "Monday  you  may 
fight,"  she  said.  "Now  I  wish 
you  would  sing." 

So  he  sang  until  his  voice 
cracked  in  his  throat.  Because  it 
was  Christmas,  and  because  it  was 
freshest  in  his  heart,  he  sang  most- 

48 


ly  what  he  and  the  blacksmith  and 
the  crockery-seller  had  sung  in  the 
castle  yard: 

"The   Light   of   Light   Divine, 
True  Brightness  undefiled, 
He  bears  for  us  the  shame  of  sin, 
A  holy,  spotless  Child." 

They  lay  that  night  in  a  ruined 
barn  with  a  roof  of  earth  and 
stones.  Clotilde  eyed  the  manger 
wistfully,  but  the  Holy  Eve  was 
past,  and  the  day  of  miracles 
would  not  come  for  a  year. 

Toward  morning,  however,  she 
roused  the  boy  with  a  touch. 

"She  may  have  forgotten  me," 
she  said.  "She  has  been  gone 
since  the  spring.  She  may  not 
love  me  now." 

49 


"She  will  love  you.  It  is  the 
way  of  a  mother  to  keep  on  lov- 
ing." 

"I  am  still  a  girl." 
"You  are  still  her  child." 
But  seeing  that  she  trembled,  he 
put  his  ragged   cloak   about  her 
and   talked    to    comfort    her,    al 
though    his    muscles    ached    for 
sleep. 

He  told  her  a  fable  of  the  coun 
tryside,  of  that  Abbot  who,  having 
duly  served  his  God,  died  and  ap 
peared  at  the  heavenly  gates  for 
admission.  "A  slave  of  the  Lord," 
he  replied,  when  asked  his  name. 
But  he  was  refused.  So  he  went 
away  and  laboured  seven  years 

50 


again  at  good  deeds  and  returned. 
"A  servant  of  the  Lord,"  he  called 
himself,  and  again  he  was  refused. 
Yet  another  seven  years  he  la 
boured  and  came  in  all  humility  to 
the  gate.  "A  child  of  the  Lord," 
said  the  Abbot,  who  had  gained 
both  wisdom  and  humility.  And 
the  gates  opened. 


in 


that  day  came 
peasants  up  the 
hill  with  their 
Christmas  dues,  of 
one  fowl  out  of  eight,  of  barley  and 
wheat.  The  courtyard  had  as 
sumed  the  appearance  of  a  great 
warehouse.  Those  that  were  pros 
perous  came  a-riding,  hissing  geese 
and  chickens  and  grain  in  bags 
across  the  saddle.  The  poorer 
trudged  afoot. 

Among  the  latter  came  the  girl 

55 


ofGocf 

Joan  of  the  Market  Square.  She 
brought  no  grain,  but  fowls  only, 
and  of  these  but  two.  She  took 
the  steep  ascent  like  a  thorough 
bred,  muscles  working  clean  un 
der  glowing  skin,  her  deep  bosom 
rising  evenly,  treading  like  a 
queen  among  that  clutter  of  peas 
ants. 

And  when  she  was  brought  into 
the  great  hall  her  head  went  yet 
higher.  It  pleased  the  young 
seigneur  to  be  gracious.  But  he 
eyed  her  much  as  he  had  eyed  the 
great  horse  that  morning  before 
he  cut  it  with  the  whip.  She  was 
but  a  means  to  an  end.  Such  love 
and  tenderness  as  were  in  him  had 


56 


gone  out  to  the  gentle  wife  he 
had  put  away  from  him,  and  had 
died— of  Clotilde. 

So  Charles  appraised  her  and 
found  her,  although  but  a  means, 
very  beautiful.  Only  the  Bishop 
turned  away  his  head. 

"Joan,"  said  Charles,  "do  you 
know  why  I  have  sent  for  you?" 

The  girl  looked  down.  But,  al 
though  she  quivered,  it  was  not 
with  fright. 

"I  do,  sire." 

Something  of  a  sardonic  smile 
played  around  the  seigneur's 
mouth.  The  butterfly  came  too 
quietly  to  the  net. 

"We  are  but  gloomy  folk  here, 

57 


rough  soldiers  and  few  women. 

It  has  been  in  my  mind "  Here 

he  saw  the  Bishop's  averted  head, 
and  scowled.  What  had  been  in 
his  mind  he  forgot.  He  said:  "I 
would  have  you  come  willingly, 
or  not  at  all." 

At  that  she  lifted  her  head  and 
looked  at  him.  "You  know  I  will 
come,"  she  said.  "I  can  do  noth 
ing  else,  but  I  do  not  come  will 
ingly,  my  lord.  You  are  asking 
too  much." 

The  Bishop  turned  his  head 
hopefully. 

"Why?" 

"You  are  a  hard  man,  my  lord." 

If  she  meant  to  anger  him,  she 

58 


failed.  They  were  not  soft  days. 
A  man  hid  such  tenderness  as  he 
had  under  grimness,  and  prayed 
in  the  churches  for  phlegm. 

"I  am  a  fighting  man.  I  have 
no  gentle  ways."  Then  a  belated 
memory  came  to  him.  "I  give  no 
tenderness  and  ask  none.  But 
such  kindness  as  you  have,  lavish 
on  the  child  Clotilde.  She  is  much 
alone." 

With  the  mention  of  Clotilde's 
name  came  a  vision:  instead  of 
this  splendid  peasant  wench  he 
seemed  to  see  the  graceful  and 
drooping  figure  of  the  woman  he 
had  put  away  because  she  had  not 
borne  him  a  son.  He  closed  his 

59 


fGof 


eyes,  and  the  girl,  taking  it  for 
dismissal,  went  away. 

When  he  opened  them  there 
were  only  the  fire  and  the  dogs 
about  it,  and  the  Bishop,  who  was 
preparing  to  depart. 

"I  shall  not  stay,  my  lord," 
said  the  Bishop.  "The  thing  is 
desecration.  No  good  can  come 
from  such  a  bond.  It  is  Christ 
mas  and  the  Truce  of  God,  and 
yet  you  do  this  evil  thing." 

So  the  Bishop  went,  muffled  in 
a  cloak,  and  mantled  with  dis 
pleasure.  And  with  him,  now  that 
Clotilde  had  fled,  went  all  that 
was  good  and  open  to  the  sun, 

60 


of  God 


from  the  grey  castle  of  Charles 
the  Fair. 

At  evening  Joan  came  again, 
still  afoot,  but  now  clad  in  her 
best.  She  came  alone,  and  the 
men  at  the  gates,  instructed,  let 
her  in.  She  gazed  around  the 
courtyard  with  its  burden  of  grain 
that  had  been  crushed  out  of  her 
people  below,  with  its  loitering 
soldiers  and  cackling  fowls,  and 
she  shivered  as  the  gates  closed 
behind  her. 

She  was  a  good  girl,  as  the 
times  went,  and  she  knew  well  that 
she  had  been  brought  up  the  hill 
as  the  stallion  that  morning  had 
been  driven  down.  She  remem- 

61 


bered  the  cut  of  the  whip,  and  in 
the  twilight  of  the  courtyard  she 
stretched  out  her  arms  toward  the 
little  town  below,  where  the  old 
man,  her  father,  lived  in  semi^dark- 
ness,  and  where  on  that  Christmas 
evening  the  women  were  gathered 
in  the  churches  to  pray. 

Having  no  seasonable  merri 
ment  in  himself,  Charles  surround 
ed  himself  that  night  with  cheer. 
A  band  of  wandering  minstrels 
had  arrived  to  sing,  the  great  fire 
blazed,  the  dogs  around  it  gnawed 
the  bones  of  the  Christmas  feast. 
But  when  the  troubadours  would 
have  sung  of  the  Nativity,  he  bade 

62 


them  in  a  great  voice  to  have  done. 
So  they  sang  of  war,  and,  remem 
bering  his  cousin  Philip,  his  eyes 
blazed. 

When  Joan  came  he  motioned 
her  to  a  seat  beside  him,  not  on 
his  right,  but  on  his  left,  and  there 
he  let  her  sit  without  speech.  But 
his  mind  was  working  busily.  He 
would  have  a  son  and  the  King 
would  legitimise  him.  Then  let 
Philip  go  hang.  These  lands  of 
his  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach 
and  as  far  again  would  never  go 
to  him. 

The  minstrels  sang  of  war,  and 
of  his  own  great  deeds,  but  there 
was  no  one  of  them  with  so  beau- 

63 


=32 


tiful  a  voice  as  that  of  the  Fool, 
who  could  sing  only  of  peace. 
And  the  Fool  was  missing. 

However,  their  songs  soothed 
his  hurt  pride.  This  was  he;  these 
things  he  had  done.  If  the  Bishop 
had  not  turned  sour  and  gone,  he 
would  have  heard  what  they  sang. 
He  might  have  understood,  too, 
the  craving  of  a  man's  warrior  soul 
for  a  warrior  son,  for  one  to  hold 
what  he  had  gathered  at  such  cost. 
Back  always  to  this  burning  hope 
of  his! 

Joan  sat  on  his  left  hand,  and 
went  hot  and  cold,  hot  with  shame 
and  cold  with  fear. 

So  now,  his  own  glory  as  a  war- 

64 


\  v,-     j—Tsrp  —  Q—e^^-lftf^^  ...A—efr^>~£  ,  I-a, 

1 

r~              ^^^  t^^^  ^^ 

"l 

) 

'    r  "'           •                  v                                  j 
H               ^7f  T^         f/^    / 

/h£  /race  of  Crod 

rior  commencing  to  pall  on  him, 

Charles  would  have  more  tribute, 

j 

X 

this  time  as  lord  of  peace.     He 

i 

} 

7/7 

«r 

would  celebrate  this  day  of  days, 

L 

'•Pa  •. 

iP 

and  at  the  same  time  throw  a  sop 

/  J 

L& 

a 

SSS 

to  Providence. 

6 

V 

m 

7W 

He  would  release  the  Jew. 

( 

uk 

K 

The  troubadours  sang   louder; 

/  . 

1 

§? 

•       fresh    liquor    was    passed    about,      f 

w 

0) 

M  / 

vl  ^ 

Charles  waited  for  the  Jew  to  be 

V 

V 

ii) 

brought. 

$' 

)  1 

He  remembered  Clotilde  then. 

/  , 

J^ 

S') 

She  should  see  him  do  this  noble 

ti 

thing.    Since  her  mother  had  gone 

i 

1 

she  had  shrunk  from  him.     Now 

let  her  see  how  magnanimous  he 

could  be.    He,  the  seigneur  9  who 

held  life  and  death  in  his  hands, 

ill 

65 

n                J                 r 

Ps 

iA3^ 

\ 

,»—                           '  ~VJ«^  '  jV^riss;!'  v^L/            ' 

would  this  day  give,  not  death, 
but  life. 

Being  not  displeased  with  him 
self,  he  turned  at  last  toward  Joan 
and  put  a  hand  over  hers. 

"You  see,"  he  said,  "I  am  not 
so  hard  a  man.  By  this  Christian 
act  shall  I  celebrate  your  arrival." 

But  the  Jew  did  not  come.  The 
singers  learned  the  truth,  and  sang 
with  watchful  eyes.  The  seigneur's 
anger  was  known  to  be  mighty, 
and  to  strike  close  at  hand. 

Guillem,  the  gaoler,  had  been 
waiting  for  the  summons. 

News  had  come  to  him  late  in 
the  afternoon  that  had  made  him 
indifferent  to  his  fate.  The  girl 

66 


Joan,  whom  he  loved,  had  come 
up  the  hill  at  the  overlord's  sum 
mons.  So,  instead  of  raising  an 
alarm,  Guillem  had  waited  sul 
lenly.  Death,  which  yesterday  he 
would  have  blenched  to  behold, 
now  beckoned  him.  When  he  was 
brought  in,  he  stood  with  folded 
arms  and  asked  no  mercy. 

"He  is  gone,  my  lord,"  said 
Guillem,  and  waited.  He  did  not 
glance  at  the  girl. 

"Gone?"  said  Charles.  Then  he 
laughed,  such  laughter  as  turned 
the  girl  cold. 

"Gone,  earth-clod?  How  now? 
Perhaps  you,  too,  wished  to  give 

67 


a  hostage  to  fortune,  to  forestall 
me  in  mercy?" 

He  turned  to  the  girl  beside 
him. 

"You  see,"  he  said,  "to  what 
lengths  this  spirit  of  the  Holy 
Day  extends  itself.  Our  friend 

here "  Then  he  saw  her  face 

and  knew  the  truth. 

The  smile  set  a  little  on  his  lips. 

"Why,  then,"  he  said  to  the 
gaoler,  "such  mercy  should  have 
its  reward."  He  turned  to  Joan. 
"What  say  you?  Shall  I  station 
him  at  your  door,  sweet  lady,  as 
a  guard  of  honour?" 

Things  went  merrily  after  that, 
for  Guillem  drew  a  knife  and 

68 


=32 


of  God 

made,  not  for  the  seigneur,  but  for 
Joan.  The  troubadours  feared  to 
stop  singing  without  a  signal,  so 
they  sang  through  white  lips.  The 
dogs  gnawed  at  their  bones  and 
the  seigneur  sat  and  smiled,  show 
ing  his  teeth. 

Guillem,  finally  unhanded,  stood 
with  folded  arms  and  waited  for 
death. 

"It  is  the  time  of  the  Truce  of 
God,"  said  the  seigneur  softly,  and, 
knowing  that  death  would  be  a 
boon,  sent  him  off  unhurt. 

The  village,  which  had  eaten 
full,  slept  early  that  night.  Down 
the  hill  at  nine  o'clock  came  half  a 


dozen  men-at-arms  on  horseback 
and  clattered  through  the  streets. 
Word  went  about  quickly.  Great 
oaken  doors  were  unbarred  to  the 
news: 

"The  child  Clotilde  is  gone!" 
they  cried  through  the  streets. 
"Up  and  arm.  The  child  Clo 
tilde  is  gone." 

Joan,  deserted,  sat  alone  in  the 
great  hall.  For  the  seigneur  was 
off,  riding  like  a  madman.  Fly 
ing  through  the  Market  Square, 
he  took  the  remains  of  the  great 
fire  at  a  leap.  He  had  but  one 
thought.  The  Jew  had  stolen  the 
child;  therefore,  to  find  the  Jew. 

In  the  blackest  of  the  night  he 

70 


found  him,  sitting  by  the  road, 
bent  over  his  staff.  The  eyes  he 
raised  to  Charles  were  haggard 
and  weary.  Charles  reined  his 
horse  back  on  his  haunches,  his 
men-at-arms  behind  him. 

"What  have  you  done  with  the 
child?" 

"The  child?" 

"Out  with  it,"  cried  Charles 
and  flung  himself  from  his  horse. 
If  the  Jew  were  haggard,  Charles 
was  more  so,  hard  bitten  of  terror, 
pallid  to  the  lips. 

"I  have  seen  no  child.  That 

is "  He  hastened  to  correct 

himself,  seeing  Charles'  face  in 
the  light  of  a  torch.  "I  was  re- 

71 


leased  by  a  child,  a  girl.  I  have 
not  seen  her  since." 

He  spoke  with  the  simplicity  of 
truth.  In  the  light  of  the  torches 
Charles'  face  went  white. 

"She  released  you?"  he  repeated 
slowly.  "What  did  she  say?" 

"She  said:  'It  is  the  birthday 
of  our  Lord,'  "  repeated  the  Jew, 
slowly,  out  of  his  weary  brain. 
*  'And  I  am  doing  a  good  deed.' ' 

"Is  that  all?"  The  Jew  hesi 
tated. 

"Also  she  said :  'But  you  do  not 
love  our  Lord.' ' 

Charles  swore  under  his  breath. 
"And  you?" 

"I  said  but  little.     I " 

72 


) 


"What  did  you  say?" 

"I  said  that  her  Lord  was  also 
a  Jew."  He  was  fearful  of  giving 
offence,  so  he  hastened  to  add :  "It 
was  by  way  of  comforting  the 
child.  Only  that,  my  lord." 

"She  said  nothing  else?"  The 
seigneur's  voice  was  dangerously 
calm. 

The  Jew  faltered.  He  knew 
the  gossip  of  the  town. 

"She  said — she  said  she  wished 
two  things,  my  lord.  To  become  a 
boy  and — to  see  her  mother." 

Then  Charles  lifted  his  face  to 
where  the  stars  were  growing  dim 
before  the  uprising  of  the  dawn, 
and  where,  as  far  away  as  the  eye 

73 


ofGoa 


could  reach  and  as  far  again,  lay 
the  castle  of  his  cousin  Philip  of 
the  Black  Beard.  And  the  rage 
was  gone  out  of  his  eyes.  For  sud 
denly  he  knew  that,  on  that  feast  of 
mother  and  child,  Clotilde  had 
gone  to  her  mother,  as  unerringly 
as  an  arrow  to  its  mark. 

And  with  the  rage  died  all  the 
passion  and  pride.  In  the  eyes 
that  had  gazed  at  Joan  over  the 
parapet,  and  that  now  turned  to 
the  east,  there  was  reflected  the 
dawning  of  a  new  day. 

The  castle  of  Philip  the  Black 
lay  in  a  plain.  For  as  much  as  a 
mile  in  every  direction  the  forest 

74 


had  been  sacrificed  against  the 
loving  advances  of  his  cousin 
Charles.  Also  about  the  castle 
was  a  moat  in  which  swam  noisy 
geese  and  much  litter. 

When,  shortly  after  dawn,  the 
sentry  at  the  drawbridge  saw  a 
great  horse  with  a  double  burden 
crossing  the  open  space  he  was 
but  faintly  interested.  A  belated 
peasant  with  his  Christmas  dues, 
perhaps.  But  when,  on  the  lift 
ing  of  the  morning  haze,  he  saw 
that  the  horse  bore  two  children 
and  one  a  girl,  he  called  another 
man  to  look. 

"Troubadours,  by  the  sound," 
said  the  newcomer.  For  the  Fool 

75 


V 

Thflruce  of Gocf 

was  singing  to  cheer  his  lack  of 
breakfast.  "Coming  empty  of 
belly,  as  come  all  troubadours." 

But  the  sentry  was  dubious. 
Minstrels  were  a  slothful  lot, 
averse  to  the  chill  of  early  morn 
ing. 

And  when  the  pair  came  nearer 
and  drew  up  beyond  the  moat,  the 
soldiers  were  still  at  a  loss.  The 
Fool's  wandering  eyes  and  tender 
mouth  bespoke  him  no  trouba 
dour,  and  the  child  rode  with  head 
high  like  a  princess. 

"I  have  come  to  see  my  moth 
er,"  Clotilde  called,  and  demanded 
admission,  clearly. 

Here  were  no  warriors,  but  a 


76 


ofGoa 


Fool  and  a  child.  So  they  let 
down  the  bridge  and  admitted  the 
pair.  But  they  raised  the  bridge 
at  once  again  against  the  lov 
ing  advances  of  Philip's  cousin 
Charles. 

But  once  in  the  courtyard  Clo- 
tilde's  courage  began  to  fail  her. 
Would  her  mother  want  her? 
Prayer  had  been  unavailing  and 
she  was  still  a  girl.  And,  at  first, 
it  seemed  as  though  her  fears  had 
been  justified,  although  they  took 
her  into  the  castle  kindly  enough, 
and  offered  her  food  which  she 
could  not  eat  and  plied  her  with 
questions  which  she  could  not  an 
swer. 

77 


"I  want  my  mother,"  was  the 
only  thing  they  could  get  out  of 
her.  Her  little  body  was  taut  as 
a  bowstring,  her  lips  tight.  They 
offered  her  excuses;  the  lady 
mother  slept;  now  she  was  rising 
and  must  be  clothed.  And  then  at 
last  they  told  her,  because  of  the 
hunted  look  in  her  eyes. 

"She  is  ill,"  they  said.  "Wait 
but  a  little  and  you  shall  see  her." 

Deadly  despair  had  Clotilde  in 
its  grasp  with  that  announcement. 
These  strange  folk  were  gentle 
enough  with  her,  but  never  before 
had  her  mother  refused  her  the 
haven  of  her  out-held  arms.  Be 
sides,  they  lied.  Their  eyes  were 

78 


of  God 


shifty.  She  could  see  in  their  faces 
that  they  kept  something  from  her. 

Philip,  having  confessed  him 
self  overnight,  by  candle-light, 
was  at  mass  when  the  pair  ar 
rived.  Three  days  one  must  rot 
of  peace,  and  those  three  days,  to 
be  not  entirely  lost,  he  prayed  for 
success  against  Charles,  or  for 
another  thing  that  lay  close  to  his 
heart.  But  not  for  both  together, 
since  that  was  not  possible. 

He  knelt  stiffly  in  his  cold 
chapel  and  made  his  supplica 
tions,  but  he  was  not  too  engrossed 
to  hear  the  drawbridge  chains  and 
to  pick  up  his  ears  to  the  clatter 
of  the  grey  horse. 

79 


So,  having  been  communicated, 
he  made  short  shift  of  what  re 
mained  to  be  done,  and  got  to  his 
feet. 

The  Abbot,  whose  offices  were 
finished,  had  also  heard  the  draw 
bridge  chains  and  let  him  go. 

When  Philip  saw  Clotilde  he 
frowned  and  then  smiled.  He  had 
sons,  but  no  daughter,  and  he 
would  have  set  her  on  his  shoul 
der.  But  she  drew  away  haugh 
tily. 

So  Philip  sat  in  a  chair  and 
watched  her  with  a  curious  smile 
playing  about  his  lips.  Surely  it 
were  enough  to  make  him  smile, 
that  he  should  play  host  to  the  wife 

80 


and  daughter  of  his  cousin  Charles. 

Because  of  that,  and  of  the 
thing  that  he  had  prayed  for,  and 
with  a  twinkle  in  his  eyes,  Black 
Philip  alternately  watched  the 
child,  and  from  a  window  the 
plain  which  was  prepared  against 
his  cousin.  And,  as  he  had  ex 
pected,  at  ten  o'clock  in  the  morn 
ing  came  Charles  and  six  men-at- 
arms,  riding  like  demons,  and 
jerked  up  their  horses  at  the  edge 
of  the  moat. 

Philip,  still  with  the  smile  un 
der  his  black  beard,  went  out  to 
greet  them. 

"Well  met,  cousin,"  he  called; 
"you  ride  fast  and  early." 

81 


Charles  eyed  him  with  feverish 
eyes. 

"Truce  of  God,"  he  said,  sulk 
ily,  from  across  the  moat.  And 
then:  "We  seek  a  runaway,  the 
child  Clotilde." 

"I  shall  make  inquiry,"  said 
Philip,  veiling  the  twinkle  under 
his  heavy  brow.  "In  such  a  sea 
son  many  come  and  go." 

But  in  his  eyes  Charles  read 
the  truth,  and  breathed  with  freer 
breath. 

They  lowered  the  drawbridge 
again  with  a  great  creaking  of 
windlass  and  chain,  and  Charles 
with  his  head  up  rode  across.  But 
his  men-at-arms  stood  their  horses 

82 


i) 


f  Goa 


o 

squarely  on  the  bridge  so  that  it 
could  not  be  raised,  and  Philip 
smiled  into  his  beard. 

Charles  dismounted  stiffly.  He 
had  been  a  night  in  the  saddle  and 
his  horse  staggered  with  fatigue. 
In  Philip's  courtyard,  as  in  his 
own,  were  piled  high  the  Christ 
mas  tithes. 

"A  good  year,"  said  Philip 
agreeably,  and  indicated  the  dues. 
"Peaceful  times,  eh,  cousin?" 

But  Charles  only  turned  to  see 
that  his  men  kept  the  drawbridge 
open,  and  followed  him  into  the 
house.  Once  inside,  however,  he 
turned  on  Philip  fiercely. 

"I  am  not  here  of  my  own  de- 

83 


sire.  It  appears  that  both  my 
wife  and  child  find  sanctuary 
with  you." 

"Tut,"  said  Philip,  good-natur 
edly,  "it  is  the  Christmas  season, 
man,  and  a  Sunday.  We  will  not 
quarrel  as  to  the  why  of  your  com- 
ing." 

"Where  is  she?" 

"Your  wife  or  Clotilde?" 

Now  all  through  the  early 
morning  Charles  had  longed  for 
one  as  for  the  other.  But  there 
was  nothing  of  that  in  his  voice. 

"Clotilde,"  he  said. 

"I  shall  make  inquiry  if  she  has 
arrived,"  mumbled  Philip  into  his 
beard,  and  went  away. 

84 


So  it  came  about  that  Charles 
was  alone  when  he  saw  the  child 
and  caught  her  up  in  his  hungry 
arms.  As  for  Clotilde,  her  fear 
died  at  once  in  his  embrace.  When 
Philip  returned  he  found  them 
thus  and  coughed  discreetly.  So 
Charles  released  the  child  and  put 
her  on  her  feet. 

"I  have,"  said  Philip,  "another 
member  of  your  family  under  my 
roof  as  to  whom  you  have  made 
no  inquiry." 

"I  have  secured  that  for  which 
I  came,"  said  Charles  haughtily. 

But  his  eyes  were  on  Philip  and 
a  question  was  in  them.  Philip, 
however,  was  not  minded  to  play 

85 


Charles'  game,  but  his  own,  and 
that  not  too  fast. 

"In  that  event,  cousin,"  he  re 
plied,  "let  the  little  maid  eat  and 
then  take  her  away.  And  since 
it  is  a  Sunday  and  the  Truce  of 
God,  we  can  drink  to  the  Christ 
mas  season.  Even  quarrelling 
dogs  have  intervals  of  peace." 

So  perforce,  because  the  ques 
tion  was  still  in  his  heart  if  not  in 
his  eyes,  Charles  drank  with  his 
cousin  and  enemy  Philip.  But 
with  his  hand  in  that  small  hand 
of  Clotilde's  which  was  so  like  her 
mother's. 

Philip's  expansiveness  extended 
itself  to  the  men-at-arms  who  still 

86 


sat  woodenly  on  the  drawbridge. 
He  sent  them  hot  liquor,  for  the 
day  was  cold,  and  at  such  inter 
vals  as  Charles'  questioning  eyes 
were  turned  away,  he  rubbed  his 
hands  together  furtively,  as  a  man 
with  a  secret. 

"A  prosperous  year,"  said 
Philip. 

Charles  grunted. 

"We  shall  have  snow  before 
night,"  said  Philip. 

"Humph!"  said  Charles  and 
glanced  toward  the  sky,  but  made 
no  move  to  go. 

"The  child  is  growing." 

To  this  Charles  made  no  reply 
whatever  and  Philip  bleated  on. 

87 


=52 


i^^^=3<2^fe^ 
^6$^^ 


fGoa 


o 

"Her  mother's  body,"  he  said, 
"but  your  eyes  and  hair,  cousin." 

Charles  could  stand  no  more. 
He  pushed  the  child  away  and 
rose  to  his  feet.  Philip,  to  give 
him  no  tithe  of  advantage,  rose 
too. 

"Now,"  said  Charles  squarely, 
"where  is  my  wife?  Is  she  hiding 
from  me?" 

Then  Philip's  face  must  grow 
very  grave  and  his  mouth  set  in 
sad  lines. 

"She  is  ill,  Charles.  I  would 
have  told  you  sooner,  but  you 
lacked  interest." 

Charles  swallowed  to  steady  his 
voice. 

88 


of  God 


"How—  ill?" 

"A  short  and  violent  illness," 
said  Philip.  "All  of  last  night 
the  women  have  been  with  her,  and 
this  morning  -  "  He  glanced 
toward  the  window.  "I  was  right, 
as  you  see,  cousin.  It  is  snow 
ing." 

Charles  clutched  him  by  the  arm 
arid  jerked  him  about.  "What 
about  this  morning?"  he  roared. 

"Snow  on  Christmas,"  mused 
Philip,  "prophesies  another  pros 
perous  year."  Then  having  run 
his  quarry  to  earth,  he  showed 
mercy. 

"Would  you  like  to  see  her?" 


of  God 

Charles  swallowed  again,  this 
time  his  pride. 

"I  doubt  if  she  cares  to  see  me." 

"Probably  not,"  said  Philip. 
"Still  a  few  words — she  is  a  true 
woman,  and  kindly.  Also  it  is  a 
magnanimous  season.  But  you 
must  tread  softly  and  speak  fair. 
This  is  no  time  for  a  high  hand." 

Charles,  perforce,  must  promise 
mildness.  He  made  the  conces 
sion  with  poor  grace,  but  he  made 
it.  And  in  Philip's  eyes  grew  a 
new  admiration  for  this  hulking 
cousin  and  enemy,  who  ate  his 
pride  for  a  woman.  At  the  en 
trance  to  an  upper  room  where 

90 


hung  a  leather  curtain,  he  stood 
aside. 

"Softly,"  he  said  through  his 
beard.  "No  harsh  words.  Send 
the  child  in  first." 

So  Philip  went  ponderously 
away  and  left  Charles  to  cool  his 
heels  and  wait.  As  he  stood  there 
sheepishly  he  remembered  many 
things  with  shame.  Joan,  and  the 
violence  of  the  last  months,  and 
the  Bishop's  averted  head.  For 
now  he  knew  one  thing,  and  knew 
it  well.  The  lady  of  his  heart  lay 
in  that  quiet  room  beyond;  and 
the  devils  that  had  fought  in  him 
were  dead  of  a  Christmas  peace. 

Little  cries  came  to  him,  Clo- 

91 


tilde's  soft  weeping,  and  another 
voice  that  thrilled  him,  filled  with 
the  wooing  note  that  is  in  a  moth 
er's  voice  when  she  speaks  to  her 
child.  But  it  was  a  feeble  voice, 
and  its  weakness  struck  terror  to 
his  soul.  What  was  this  thing  for 
which  he  had  cast  her  away,  now 
that  he  might  lose  her?  His  world 
shook  under  his  feet.  His  cousin 
and  enemy  was,  willy-nilly,  be 
come  his  friend.  His  world,  which 
he  had  thought  was  his  own  do 
main,  as  far  from  his  castle  as  the 
eye  could  reach  and  as  far  again, 
was  in  an  upper  room  of  Philip's 
house,  and  dying,  perhaps. 

But  she  was  not  dying.     They 


of  God 

admitted  him  in  time  to  save  his 
pride,  for  he  was  close  to  distrac 
tion.  And,  being  admitted,  he 
saw  only  the  woman  he  had  put 
away. 

He  went  straight  to  his  wife's 
bed  and  dropped  on  his  knees  be 
side  it.  Not  for  his  life  could  he 
have  spoken  then.  Inarticulate 
things  were  in  his  mind,  remorse 
and  the  loneliness  of  the  last 
months,  and  the  shame  of  the  girl 
Joan. 

He  caught  her  hand  to  him  and 
covered  it  with  kisses. 

"I  have  tried  to  live  without 
you,"  he  said,  "and  death  itself 
were  better." 

93 


ofGocf 

When  she  did  not  reply,  but 
lay  back,  white  to  the  lips,  he  rose 
and  looked  down  at  her. 

"I  can  see,"  he  said,  "that  my 
touch  is  bitterness.  I  have  mer 
ited  nothing  better.  So  I  shall  go 
again,  but  this  time,  if  it  will  com 
fort  you,  I  shall  give  you  the  child 
Clotilde — not  that  I  love  her  the 
less,  but  that  you  deserve  her  the 
more." 

Then  she  opened  her  eyes,  and 
what  he  saw  there  brought  him 
back  to  his  knees  with  a  cry. 

"I  want  only  your  love,  my 
lord,  to  make  me  happy,"  she  said. 
"And  now,  see  how  the  birthday  of 
our  Lord  has  brought  us  peace." 

94 


She  drew  down  the  covering  a 
trifle,  close  to  his  bent  head,  and 
showed  the  warm  curve  of  her 
arm.  "Unto  us  also  is  born  a  son, 
Charles." 

"I  have  wanted  a  son,"  said 
Charles  the  Fair,  "but  more  than 
a  son  have  I  wanted  you,  heart  of 
my  heart." 

Outside  in  the  courtyard  the 
Fool  had  drawn  a  circle  about 
him. 

"I  am  adventuring,"  he  said. 
"Yesterday  I  caught  this  horse 
when  the  others  ran  from  him. 
Then  I  saved  a  lady  and  brought 
her  to  her  destination.  This  being 

95 

n  ..  r 


the  Christmas  season  and  a  Sun 
day,  I  shall  rest  here  for  a  day." 
He  threw  out  his  chest  magnifi 
cently.  "But  tomorrow  I  continue 
on  my  way." 

"Can  you  fight?"  They  baited 
him. 

"I  can  sing,"  he  replied.  And 
he  threw  back  his  head  with  its 
wandering  eyes  and  tender  mouth 
and  sang: 

"The   Light   of   Light   Divine, 
True  Brightness  undefiled. 
He  bears  for  us  the  shame  of  sin, 
A  holy,  spotless  Child." 

The  End 


96 


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